


This Is War

by captain_subtext



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Minor Injuries, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25953622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_subtext/pseuds/captain_subtext
Summary: “We both know I’ll ‘ave you, beautiful. You just tell me when.”***What if Scabior had grabbed Hermione before she could escape Malfoy Manor with Dobby?Short canon divergence, and as it's been a while since I've read the book or seen the movie I hope you'll forgive if I jog the timeline or forget some details.Note: Hermione is of age in this fic.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Scabior
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

Hermione awoke to darkness.

She squinted, trying to make out where she was. She was on the ground, or near to it-the smell of earth was close and cool. As her eyes adjusted, she noticed other details: Draped, sagging walls, a wooden trunk directly across from where she lay. But this wasn’t her tent in the Forest of Dean. The canvas walls were much too close, and all drab brown and green. The wooden trunk was the only furniture she could see. An unlit lantern hung from a hook on a supporting pole. The blankets over her were rough and smelled…wrong.

Her heart raced. All at once it came rushing back: the snatchers, Harry and Ron, Malfoy Manor. But this wasn’t the manor. The tent was too plain to be magical. Maybe she’d been rescued by the muggle military? But military bases were supposed to be busy, so where was everyone? She sat up and cold air slapped her back and sides.

“Mornin’, beautiful.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched. She knew that voice.


	2. Chapter 2

“Lumos.”

The lantern blazed to life. A man stood just beyond it in the shadows. Light flickered over sharp features and soot-stained eyes that Hermione knew all too well. The snatcher. The one who’d found them. The one who had her scarf.

He still had it, looped through his belt and threadbare with wear. He sauntered towards her, bare feet on bare earth, his silence reminding Hermione of a wolf, or a big cat. He was shirtless, with protective tattoos spiraling up both ropy arms. They were actually very pretty, but the Dark Mark blotted one forearm like an ink stain. The hair dusting his defined chest tapered to a thin line tracing down his hard belly to the waistband of his low-slung trousers, to, to—

“See something you like, love?” He smirked.

Hermione’s face went hot. “I was just looking at your tattoos,” she snapped. “Do the runes even work with the Dark Mark stenciled over them?”

“Aw come now, none o’ that. The Dark Lord keeps me on a long leash.” He pulled some clothing off a peg and slipped his wand into a holster strapped to his leg.

Hermione’s heart leaped. A wand! Maybe, if she was quick, she could take it from him. She started to stand but immediately darted back under the blanket. “Where are my clothes?”

“Burnt. Can’t leave all that blood everywhere. Dark wizards about, who knows what they’d use it for.” He winked at her.

Her face grew hotter still. “And my friends?” she asked.

“Gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?” _And why didn’t they take me with them?_

“Dunno. They got away," he said.

Harry and Ron got away! Yes, she remembered now. Dobby… and they had reached for her…"You don't seem all that upset about it," she said.

"I just snatch ‘em,” he said with a shrug. “Not my fault if the Dark Lord can’t hang on to what I brought him.” He sat down next to her. The thin pallet flattened under his weight and she slipped closer to him. “Maybe if I catch ‘em again, I’ll get paid again.”

Hermione squirmed away from him. “Is that what you’re doing with me? Taking me back so you can get paid?”

He grinned. “Oh no, sweetheart. You’re my payment.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Payment?” Hermione pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “What do you mean?”

The snatcher fondled the scarf. “The Dark Lord promised me that if I found the girl who smelled like this I could keep her.”

“That’s just perfume,” Hermione said. “You don’t want me, you want a bottle of—”

“Oh no, love.” He tapped his nose. “Snatcher, you know. I can smell you underneath all that. I gotta smell a lot o’ nasty things in my line of work so I reckon I got a right to something sweet when I get home.”

“But people can’t own other people, they just can’t!”

“They can now, love. The Dark Lord makes the rules, not me.”

“But…” Voldemort was permitting his followers to what, _own_ muggle-borns? It was better than killing them outright, but then, dark wizards could likely invent torments worse than death. Her throat tightened.

“I did you a favor!” the snatcher said. “I pulled you outa there and patched you up. You think you’d get a better deal from Malfoy, or Crazy Bella? Speakin’ o’ which—" He grabbed at her arm.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, wrestling out of his grip. The searing burn as the bandages tore doubled her over in pain.

“Come on now, I’m not gonna hurt ya.” He held his hands up in placation. “You want that wrapped back up or not?”

He’d torn the stained bandage and it felt like her skin was peeling off along with it. Cringing, Hermione let him touch her.

He unwrapped it with surprising gentleness given his big, callused hands. The wounds weren’t bleeding, but they were bright red with ragged, bloodless edges. He tsked. “She sure did a number on ya,” he said. “I’d crucio her for that if I could get away with it. Don’t like it when people break my things.”

“I’m not a _thing_ ,” Hermione said.

He reached into the wooden trunk and pulled out a small bottle. “I’m gonna use this. It’ll sting like hell but then it won’t. Ya trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself.

The pain was instant and searing. It scraped like sandpaper on fire as he rubbed it in, and she bit her lip because she would _not_ let him see her cry. Just as the first tears rolled down her cheeks, her arm went cold.

The snatcher capped the potion. “There, now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No. I guess not.” Her arm felt, well, not fine. But the pain had faded to a dull throb.

Hermione wiped away her tears as he ripped up the scrap of clothing, transmogrified it into bandages, and rebound her arm. His spells and movements were too quick and clean for her to grab his wand easily. She needed some kind of distraction.

Unfortunately, his sharp eyes noticed everything, and as soon as he saw how closely she was watching he reholstered his wand with a securing spell. “Don’t you think it, little girl,” he chuckled. “Even if you got away there’s nothin’ but my camp and my men for miles around. And if they don’t think you’re mine they might take ya for themselves.”

“I’m not yours," Hermione said. "I’ll never be yours...”

But the snatcher wasn’t listening to her anymore. He played with her hair, winding a curl around his fingers. With fluttering eyelashes, he held it to his nose.


	4. Chapter 4

The snatcher’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Ah, there it is…vanilla and honey and sunshine.” He buried his face in her hair.

Hermione froze as he crushed her against his chest. She had to tighten her grip on the blanket to keep from tracing her fingers down those tattoos or running her hands through his deliciously rough chest hair. He smelled of campfires and leather and something so dark and forbidden it made her stomach do flip flops. She swallowed. “What’s your name?” she whispered through dry lips.

“Scabior.” His breath was warm on her neck. “You’re Hermione, yeah?”

“Yes.” Good. She was a person to him now, not just a nameless mudblood. Maybe it would make him go easy on her. “And you really just want to smell me?”

He hummed, burrowing his hand further into her hair.

“You’re not going to…rape me?”

“Rape you?” Scabior drew back, his brow furrowed in hurt and confusion. “No! No, sweetness. I would never…I’m a bad one, yeah, but not like that.”

“Then you’ll…” His holster was so close. Hermione’s hand drifted towards it. “You’ll not…force yourself on me?”

“No, never,” he said. “Especially when you’re gonna spread your legs for me anyway.”

He grinned and Hermione shoved him away. “You’re disgusting! I would never, ever—”

“Are you having me on?” Scabior grabbed her wrists. “I can tell when a woman wants me! She smells stronger, sweeter. And I could smell you if you were buried in Gringott’s vaults.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“You ‘looked at my tattoos’ like you wanted to lick ‘em off.” He pulled her into his lap and whispered in her ear. “We both know I’ll ‘ave you, beautiful. You just tell me when.”

A shudder that had nothing to do with fear crawled down Hermione’s spine. She _had_ been staring. It was hard not to when he looked like _that_ , when his chest felt like _that_. And he smelled so _good_ … “You don’t want me,” she stammered. “I’ve never…I don’t know what I’m doing…”

“Oh, I’ll make it sweet for you,” he whispered.

And Merlin, from the way he brushed his lips against her ear to the way it made her toes curl, she just _knew_ that he would.

He played with another lock of her hair. Long scars scored his arms up to the elbows. Scars from people who fought back, people who tried to get away from him. _People like me._

But his wand was right _there_ , still strapped to his thigh.

Scabior was a bad man, even if he thought he wasn’t. He was a lot older than her, maybe even thirty, with all those years of magical experience. He was bigger and stronger, and she was in his tent, in his camp. He held all the cards.

But if she was patient, maybe she could get some of those cards back.

Scabior’s stubbled cheek brushed her face. “Not even a little kiss, love?”

Hermione’s heart pounded in her ears. Didn’t women do this all the time in times of war? Use their “feminine wiles” to let their captors think they were weak or stupid so they could trick them? Well, Hermione wasn’t stupid. She might not know much about the world, but she knew this was war. And if doing... this got her free, got her back to Ron and Harry, maybe it was worth it.

And if she enjoyed it a little, well, it couldn’t be helped.

_I’m sorry, Ron_.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I guess…it’s okay if you kiss me.”

So he did.


	5. Chapter 5

Victor Krum had been Hermione’s first kiss. Despite his celebrity, he’d been kind and reserved. Soft, chaste presses against her lips, his wispy mustache tickling her. Until she tried to French kiss him.

He’d drawn back, cheeks flushed. “You’re too young,” he’d said, and he was probably right. Victor had taken her back to the Yule ball and danced with her all night to the envy of all, including Ron. She’d been fourteen, and Victor had been a fourteen-year-old girl’s dream.

But she was eighteen now. And Scabior wasn’t chaste at all.

But he wasn’t a brute, either. He was slow but thorough, gently teasing her lips apart, winding his hands through her hair. He tasted like firewhiskey and smoke. “Relax your mouth, love,” he murmured. And when she did, it got even better. She wasn't sure when she ended up on her back, but for the longest time they just lay together like that, kissing.

He didn’t try to pull the blanket away, even when he started nuzzling behind her ear. She took a chance and did the same to him, and when he gasped she finally dared to touch his bare body. Scabior was spare but solid, all taut muscle flexing under scarred skin, and she couldn't stop running her hands over him.

He trailed kisses down her throat, licked the dip between her clavicles. When he reached the edge of the blanket he stopped and looked at her, as if asking for permission.

 _I ought to stop him._ This was all too much, too fast. She’d always expected she'd do this with someone she knew after more dates, some snogging sessions. But he felt so good, so unmistakably _right_ , that she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.

With a grin Scabior pulled it away. He cupped her breasts with his big hands and she couldn’t help but clench her thighs together when he sucked and pinched her nipples. How could any girl stop something so blissful?

So when Scabior kept nudging the blanket down, down, down, she didn’t stop him.

He lavished every part of her with open-mouthed, heated kisses, like he really was trying to inhale her. By the time he’d uncovered her knickers, he was panting like he’d run a marathon.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groaned, hooking his fingers into her waistband. “You always this wet, beautiful?”

I... I don’t know…” Hermione blushed at the stickiness between her legs. She’d heard all the older girls’ whispers in the Gryffindor dormitory at night, how boys thought it was gross, and all the things they had to do get their boyfriends to lick them there. “I’m—”

He ripped her knickers off. Clearly Scabior didn’t mind. At all.

Hermione moaned under Scabior’s clever fingers and cleverer tongue. He knew exactly where to touch, and how long, and how much. Hermione wasn’t naïve—she’d touched herself in the baths a few times—but it wasn’t anywhere as good as his stubble scraping her sensitive thighs, his callused fingers pumping inside her, his talented tongue twisting around her clit while her hands tangled in his hair. She came so hard she had to bite down on her own hand to keep from shouting.

She was still shaking when he dove up through her legs for another kiss. He tasted wonderfully of her musk. Something hard jabbed into her hip, and it didn’t take much imagination to guess what it was. She just wasn’t sure she was ready for it.


	6. Chapter 6

Scabior’s belt creaked as he yanked his trousers down. He was…well, of course Hermione had seen anatomical diagrams and pictures. But they didn’t prepare her for the thick, veined member jutting out of his fly. The head was fat and flushed, and when Scabior put her hands on it she could feel his pulse through the velvety skin. “You just hold on right there, beautiful,” he said.

He pulled out his wand. Hermione despaired. No wonder he wanted her hands occupied! He cast the contraceptivio quickly but clearly, the warm flame of magic licking through her belly and over his groin before he tore his trousers the rest of the way off. 

“We can’t!” she gasped.

“Why not? I’m not gonna put a baby in ya!”

“You’re too big.” Maybe he wasn’t—it wasn’t as if she had anyone to compare him to—but she could barely get a hand around him.

“And you’re so wet you damn near drowned me. I think we’ll be fine. Unless you don’t want to?”

He straddled her hips, bracketing her in with those gorgeous arms and dragging his cock down her belly. The self-satisfied smirk on his face was still wet with her juices. Scabior knew she wouldn’t say no, not now, not when her pussy clenched just at the sight of him.

Hermione pulled him on top of her.

Scabior was gentle, relatively speaking. She’d always heard that a girl’s first time was like being split in half but his slow grinds and thrusts hurt more like stretching a muscle-a very sensitive muscle. She spread her legs wider so he could enter her inch by glorious inch.

“So tight, beautiful,” he rasped. “So wet. How long you been waiting for me?”

She kissed him to shut him up. She’d never waited for him, it was never supposed to be him. But after he seated himself fully and began to fuck her properly, she couldn’t imagine why or how she’d ever tried to resist him.

Skin to skin, sweat and scent, they moved together so perfectly Hermione almost wept. Scabior buried his face in her hair and she wrapped her legs around his waist to take him deeper, harder. With a hitch of his hips his cock jolted something deep inside her, something her fingers could never reach. She quivered around him painfully. “Scabior!” she gasped.

He slipped a hand between them and strummed her clit. “Are you gonna come for me again, love? Come all over my cock?”

“Scabior!” Oh Merlin, it was too much! She was going to fall apart—

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart, keep screamin’ my name,” he growled in her ear. “I want everyone in this camp to know who’s fuckin’ you so good.”

With every roll of his hips Scabior wound her tighter and tighter until she couldn’t hold back anymore. Hermione smothered her cries in his chest as she came, the pleasure wiping out the pain in wave after delirious wave. She didn’t even notice he’d come too until his movements stuttered with a final hard thrust. He fell atop her, hand tangled in her hair, panting in her ear.


	7. Chapter 7

It was almost dawn before Hermione was able to steal his wand.

Vigilant as Scabior was, when he finally fell asleep, he was dead to the world and he’d left it unholstered in his discarded clothes. Stupefying him while he snored into the blankets was easy. Transmogrifying the remains of the shirt into pajamas was even easier. The tent’s wards were fiddly, but not foolproof.

She hesitated and looked back at Scabior’s nude form, pale as the moon in his dark tent. She ought to obliviate him. Because he would come looking for her, and she just knew he could find her no matter where she went, or what she did.

Instead, she just stole his coat. The morning was chilly. Besides, the sight of her wearing it surprised the lone camp sentry enough for her to stupefy and obliviate him before he could raise an alarm.

Hermione never told Ron and Harry how she got away, or where she got a stranger’s coat. They were kind enough, bless them, not to ask. And she knew she could never explain why she did what she did with Scabior. Not in a way they’d understand.

After the war, when she heard that a group of snatchers were found dead in a ravine, she didn’t go looking for his name on the casualty scrolls.

But every now and then, when she was alone, she’d put on his coat and let herself savor the last remaining traces of leather and campfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, feels good to get this fic out of my head! It's wanted to be written forever.
> 
> Comments are candy. Let me know what you think!


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